


Constellated

by aban_asaara



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Kirkwall crew - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: And then there’s Hawke, just as lost, straying into their paths.An ode to found family.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Constellated

**Author's Note:**

> From the “lost words” prompt list that was making the rounds on tumblr: sparsile (SPAR-seyel) - adj., of a star, not included in any constellation.

Stupid of her to have let herself believe in the young king’s grand speeches. He wanted a battle like in the stories, and he got it. Ser Aveline went down in history for being the first woman slain at a tournament; King Cailan’s troops, for falling to the darkspawn. Even stupider of her to think that Ostagar was as bad as it would get: then they had to flee from the horde, watch hope fade from countless eyes as they ran from village to village. Never did get used to the taste of King Cailan’s loss and the Wardens’ betrayal, passed from mouth to mouth along with whispered prayers. She had Wesley, at least, until she didn’t. All **Aveline** has left of him now is his shield and his name, and her grief hollowing her out.

—

Always on the run. First from the Templars, then the Wardens. Now he’s just one more Fereldan refugee, lost among the faceless mass that took up residence in Kirkwall’s undercity. Just as well. At least he’s breathing the bloody chokedamp on his own terms, not at the behest of anyone whose title ends in _Commander_. And what he’s become … there’s no place for that anywhere, is there? So now it’s just him—funny, when he’s never truly alone anymore—oh, him and the _rats_ , of course, but here, at least, he can change things. Small things, of course: a broken bone here, a bad cough there, but **Anders** is working his way to bigger things. _Much_ bigger things. And if that’s the price of justice, then so be it.

—

How can they not see? She’s doing it for _them_. All she’s ever done was for her clan, for the Dalish. They can’t afford to waste this chance, not when they’ve lost so much already. It’s her duty to uncover and preserve what little is left of the Elvhen, to fight against the erosion of time and loss. She wouldn’t even mind going away, if it meant setting their minds at ease, but the way they look at her now … To think she was the clan’s First! Now they’re exiling her, throwing her away like something dirty. Something _tainted_. If only she could make them _see_. If only she could make them _pay_ —

 **Merrill** whirls away from the dull, cracked surface of the Eluvian, and scratches at the scabs on her wrist until the demon’s grasp slips off her mind.

—

It’s a formality at this point. A Tethras turning up dead would be embarrassing for everyone involved, but he has to give it to the Davris: it makes for a much more compelling story than sternly-worded letters, that’s for sure. So they send their assassins, he sends them back—riddled with bolts, for good measure—and everybody returns to their scheduled Merchants’ Guild shenanigans until the next tryst. It has the makings of a decent romance—Orlesians eat that star-crossed shit up—but living _in_ a tale of forbidden love and intrigue? Sucks harder than an unweaned litter of nugs, as it turns out. No one’s gonna miss him if the next assassin is competent enough to find their mark. Oh, they’d miss his coin, alright. Maybe even his stories. But **Varric** ’s always been better at _writing_ heroes than playing them.

—

 _Queen of the Eastern Seas, my arse_. A queen with no queendom, a captain with no ship, her crew dead and drowned off the coast of the Waking Sea. And nothing to show for it, what with that damned relic lost Maker knows where. No one to watch her back, either, when Castillon inevitably claims his due. And she couldn’t even get stranded on her own, no, had to have the bloody Qunari stuck to her arse like a bad rash even on dry land. There’s poetry in there somewhere, if not justice, but **Isabela** doesn’t care to look for it. She shoves the thought away, gestures at Corff for another drink. Last one for the night, though she could use about ten more—but if this is to end with a knife between her shoulder blades, she’s sure as hell not going to make it _easy_.

—

He was the last one in the Chantry to learn of it. His parents, his brothers, their wives and children, all slaughtered in their own homes by the Flint Company, and everyone in the Chantry knew except him. He never even meant to eavesdrop on Sister Samea and Sister Lorena’s idle gossip, but the name _Starkhaven_ caught his ear while he stood on the mezzanine above them, and then the world crumbled under his feet. No survivors except himself, forgotten in Kirkwall, hidden away in the Maker’s house. A test of faith, one Revered Mother called it, but surely the Maker cannot be so cruel as to murder a dozen people— _good_ people, whatever his younger self might have said about it—to test one man’s faith? No, He is merciful, and **Sebastian** finds no meaning in His mercy but the chance to avenge his family.

—

It never ends. Three years spent roaming the land from coast to coast, and still they are there at every turn, hounding him until his feet refuse to take another step. He is tired—tired of running, of stealing a few hours of sleep in a barn or the attic of a warehouse. Where will he go when he reaches the south shore? When he docks in Ferelden? How long can he hope to outrun Danarius before he makes a mistake and gets himself caught? _This is no life_ , **Fenris** thinks as he curls up on a haybale, the scent of his makeshift bed tickling his nose. Before he slips into a dreamless slumber, stomach grumbling, he catches himself thinking of spiced chocolate and the free, wild song of Seheron’s thousand, thousand birds.

—

And then there’s **Hawke** , just as lost, straying into their paths, edges so broken they fall together like pieces—and sometimes, when the torchlight of the Hanged Man shivers around watered-down ale and a deck of cards and laughter drifts in the night like lonely stars, the cracks vanish for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
